


ustulation

by thishazeleyeddemon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Grace Kink (Supernatural), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Chronic Pain, Dom/sub Undertones, Fix-It, In a nebulous 15.19 fix-it, Light Angst, M/M, Not actually sure where this is Mature vs. Explicit, Post-Canon, Probably the same one as Requiem, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, anyway. have fun. had fun making this. gonna nap now, if you find weird words you don't have to write meaningful summaries, if you look at my works you'll see how long this tactic has been working for me, this exists because i had a terrible case of 1. melancholic 2. stressed 3. bored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishazeleyeddemon/pseuds/thishazeleyeddemon
Summary: USTULATION - [noun] 1. the act of scorching or burning. 2. Pharmacology: the roasting or drying of moist substances. Etymology: from Late Latin ustulāre, from Latin ūrere, “to burn”.
Relationships: Michael/Adam Milligan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 56





	ustulation

**Author's Note:**

> Andrew Dabb our expectations were low but holy fuck, (can y'all believe Dean caught clown tetanus)  
> cleanse yourself of your memories of the finale with this

It pulls Adam out of sleep, the hornet-buzz of Michael's pain.

Pulls him from sleep, yes, frightens him, no. It's been a few months. He's come to expect this now, starting to adjust to the idea of this being permanent. Michael isn't, but then for all that he participates in the fast-flowing cascade of human life now (to some degree) he still thinks in primordial scale. It will take him time to adjust. That's okay, though; Adam will be here for him. 

He rises from the cradle of sleep slowly, gentle as a drifting dandelion seed, but he feels Michael's attention shift to him immediately. He feels his shame, and reaches out to soothe him quickly; he doesn't mind if Michael is vulnerable in front of him. It's okay, it's always okay. Michael is so strong, but he doesn't need to be so stoic with Adam.

Michael reacts how he usually does, with an embarrassed shiver through his Grace, a wash of awkward affection towards Adam. Adam returns it gently. It really is okay. He's happy to do this for Michael, even as he's still furious it's necessary.

He doesn't like making an apparition, finds it too reminiscent of the weightless space out of time that was the Cage, but for this, it's fine. He rises through the layers of his and Michael's shared consciousness, pushes enough of himself outward to take his own form. As usual now, Michael's drags at him. It's not deliberate on the archangel's part, it's just that Michael doesn't like letting go of him, is still afraid, at least on some level Adam will disappear if he does.

Adam doesn't mind. It's not like there's not cause. 

Someone who doesn't know Michael probably couldn't see the pain in the way he's sitting on their bed, in the way his shoulders are hunched in. Adam sighs - more for the motion than actual air - and places his hand on Michael's back.

"Bad day, hm?" Adam murmurs. 

Michael huffs, even as he leans back into Adam's hand. "...Yes," he says voice tight. 

Usually when an angel dies, their Grace burns out of their vessel as they are transported to the Empty. The vessel is damaged, the angel's self is injured - but they are still largely whole, able to be pulled from the Empty intact. 

Michael was _shattered._ His essence was pulled apart and scattered into pieces and strewn across the world, his very self dissipated into nothing. He was returned by Jack, and is technically whole again, but, well - scars persist, physical and mental. Adam was a doctor, he knows that better than most. 

He isn't one for vengeance, having given up his dreams of that around when _Lucifer_ was rescued from the Cage instead of him, but he thinks for one hot second he could _kill_ his half-brothers for this. For tricking Michael into being anywhere near Chuck. Still - he can't ease the pain completely, but there are some things he can do to help this, his closest companion, his dearest friend, his only love.

Michael gasps, softly, as Adam presses his lips to the small of his back. The tension starts to pull away from him, slowly, slowly, like the tide receding. 

"Bring your wings out?" Adam requests, starting to massage Michael's back carefully. It helps, but only if done well. 

Michael's head had fallen forward onto his chest, but he starts at Adam's voice. "Okay." His voice is rough, a little strained. 

It's not super easy for Michael to bring his wings out. He wasn't born with them; there was no sky to fly in when he was young, after all (Adam's fallen in love with someone who predates the concept of linear space, try explaining that to the church ladies who used to ask if he had a girlfriend yet). His wings are later additions, and Michael's confessed that they've never quite felt like a part of him. When he was young they were terribly unwieldy, and when he tried to fly he was clumsy and awkward. Even before this, the place where they were grafted on would ache. It takes him a moment to bring them out, press them down enough to fit onto this plane. 

As always, they make Adam's breath catch in his throat. Mostly, they're a pure, blinding white, like the classic image of an angel's wings (and even though Michael has confessed unhappiness with this, with his supposed plainness compared to the colors of the other angels' wings, Adam thinks they're beautiful), but what feathers aren't white are a very reflective silver, like tiny mirrors. Michael's wings remind Adam of the Bolivian salt flats, where you can walk as if among the stars (they haven't yet, have barely left this cottage since Adam was thrown into darkness again and Michael was shattered, but they're getting there. Soon they'll be able to go wherever they want without feeling jumpy and anxious again). There are the scars of Hell, places where the feathers are gray and dull, where they didn't grow back properly after the Cage, but they only serve to make him more beautiful to Adam.

Michael winces when Adam's hands touch his wings (even without pain, they're very sensitive - Michael had never permitted anyone to touch them in Heaven). Adam slows down, pressing in as gently as he can, finding knots in the ethereal musculature and kneading them away. His fingers brush against one of Michael's oil glands, and he digs his fingers in there until oil rises up around his fingers and he spreads them through the feathers, making the silver gleam like diamonds. Michael's feathers feel strange, more like the idea of a wing than a wing itself, but terribly soft all the same. Michael at his core is fire, is life and light and heat like a living sun, and his wings are hot against Adam's fingers, hot enough that were he not acclimatized to Michael, they could have burned. Adam, momentarily struck again by the massive amount of trust he's being shown, leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of one wing.

Michael, who is still Gabriel and Lucifer's brother, shifts his wing so it hits Adam in the face and he gets a mouthful of feathers.

"You - son of a _bitch -"_ Adam sputters. "Look at how you treat your favorite human," he complains as Michael laughs, but there's no venom to it. Even if Adam couldn't _feel_ that it was working, things like that mean he's feeling better. Michael could be surprisingly playful, in his own way.

"Favorite person," Michael says. He can't really turn without passing one of his wings through Adam's apparition and that's the sort of thing both of them find oddly distressing, so he reaches back to squeeze Adam's hand while inside, his Grace curls around Adam. "Favorite, period."

"Oh - _hush,"_ Adam says, and if he was currently in his body he knows his face would be flaring red. That's what being left behind does to you, he guesses, it makes you an idiot who still can't take compliments after over a thousand years. He pulls a final feather out of his mouth (they make his mouth feel cold and hot at the same time, like he's swallowed a comet) and uses it to tickle the back of Michael's neck until he gasps, twisting away, laughing. "Let me finish."

Michael laughs again, but he does quiet down. They don't talk, but not because they don't have anything to say - simply that they have known each other for so long they don't need to. Adam lets himself drift as he combs through and massages and presses, sinking down into the darkness of their room, the warm air, the heat of Michael's skin and the clean, stardust smell of his Grace. He feels it as his ministrations ease Michael's tension, as gradually, slow as a glacier, the pain starts to fade. 

Before Michael had been sitting as still as he could, stiff with tension. He'd loosened up as Adam worked but Adam, paying more attention to the pain that he could still feel clinging to the edges of Michael's consciousness, didn't really notice what else Michael was feeling until Michael started pushing his wings back against Adam's hands, soft cries falling from his mouth. Adam paused, listening to the rest of the song of Michael's emotions.

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" Adam grinned. He continued to comb through Michael's feathers, but more deliberately this time, searching for something specific. 

"All your fault," Michael groans, arching his back as he pushes back into Adam. He's going for righteous indignation, a tone he usually finds quite easily, but the low breathiness of his voice is putting the lie to it. A shiver runs through Adam's spine at the tone, aching and hungry. Michael's want is slowly eclipsing his pain, and even though it's still there, Adam could probably stop right now so they could do other things and as long as they were a little careful, it would go just fine. 

He could stop right now. But where's the fun in that?

He's still combing through Michael's feathers when he finds it, one of the large oil glands near the base of his wings. The feathers around it are sodden and make a wet, sucking sound as Adam digs his fingers through them and finds the gland itself. Michael moans, turning his head to try and look at Adam. "Adam -"

Adam leans in and nips at the base of his neck as he digs his fingers in and _twists._ Oil gushes out around his fingers as Michael lets out a sharp whine, sounding almost shocked by what he's feeling. Adam feels the want boiling in his stomach and pulls himself back, just enough so Michael's emotions don't spill over into him. He wants to be able to last a little while, after all. 

"I'm not done with your wings yet," he whispers into Michael's ear. "Can't you wait?"

"You -" Michael has to switch to Enochian to express his annoyance properly; Adam is fairly sure that if you told the average angelic soldier Archangel Michael knew words like that, you'd be considered a madman. Translating from Enochian to English is a bit tricky, the best Adam can do is "-damned fucking _tease."_ It makes Adam laugh - for the sake of Michael's dignity, he pretends he doesn't notice how Michael's Grace hums and sparks when he does. 

"Tell you what," he decides, shuffling forward so he's pressed against Michael's back torso to thighs, "If you let me get through grooming your wings I'll let you fuck me however you want."

"You let me do that _anyway,"_ Michael points out, trying to twist his head to look at Adam again. Adam bites him right behind his ear, than laves over the spot with his tongue, making Michael keen softly, his head falling forward. 

"Are you saying you're not up for it?" Adam asks, which is a little bit of a dirty trick because Michael is the most competitive person in the world. Sure enough, Michael straightens up, and Adam feels his sudden determination like steel. 

"Of course I am," he says, voice low and rough and hungry. "Are you?" he asks, and one of the pluses of sharing a body with your significant other is that Adam feels Michael's desire for him like honeyed lava filling his lungs and pooling in his stomach, the feral hunger and power of this creature all pointed in his direction like an arrow. Images flit behind his eyes, images of what Michael is thinking of doing to him when he wins.

No one in all of creation is more determined, more focused, more able to commit to a goal than Viceroy Michael, Prince of Heaven. There's literally no way Adam could win this.

Good. 

"Of course," Adam purrs.

It is an exercise in will for both of them, but mostly Adam (in his opinion) - he wants to lose, he wants Michael to pin him against the bed and exercise his newfound creativity in doing as many blasphemous things to Adam as he wants (and Michael has been very creative and enthusiastic in that regard _indeed)._ It makes it hard to focus on combing through Michael's feathers when his head is full of the possibilities the next few hours could bring. His hands are coated in Michael's wing oil, the clean, electric smell making his head spin. He swallows, more for the memory than the need, and keeps going, digging his fingers into Michael's oil glands and hearing him grit his teeth against moaning more even as his wings twitch and flutter against Adam's hands, making Adam glad there's very little else in this room but their bed. (They had, uh, _acquired_ this cottage shortly before they had both been - anyway. They'd planned to decorate it with any souvenirs of their travels they could get their hands on. That was still the plan, soon as they could leave the thick warding Michael had layered around the edges of it for more than a few minutes without getting unbearably anxious. They had time. They were getting there.)

"What - what would you do if you win?" Michael asks, voice tight, thick with barely controlled hunger. "What would you do?" 

"I..." Adam struggled to pull his thoughts together, out of the heated fog they'd descended into. Michael continued before he could piece together a sentence. 

"I guess it doesn't matter, does it," he muses, even as he rocked back into Adam, his body a warm line against him. "Since you won't win, after all. I will. I will, and I'll h-have you, until all you can think of is me -"

Adam's breath catches in his throat as his hands falter in Michael's feather. His apparition flickers as his concentration flounders. He feels light, dizzy with the smell of Michael's wings. He can feel Michael's possessiveness all around him like a warm blanket, his affection, his love, his desire. It is increasingly hard by the second to remember that he's not supposed to just sink into the inferno and let it carry him away. 

"I'm almost done," he promises, and gives in and leans forward to press kisses to the base of Michael's neck. "If you can wait, you can do whatever you want."

Michael takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out. It's a surprisingly natural gesture, considering Adam isn't sure he breathes in his true form. His hands fist in the sheets, like he has to stop himself from grabbing for Adam or himself. 

Adam speeds up, trying to comb through and massage the rest of Michael's wings as fast as he can. They're so warm, so light - even if Michael sometimes feels like they aren't his, they feel like him to Adam, as full of heat and life as the rest of him. Adam is incomprehensibly grateful sometimes that he gets this, gets to touch this, gets someone like Michael with him always, every day, his Grace and Adam's soul threaded together like a key in a lock -

\- Michael makes a low, animal sound, and Adam remembers that Michael too was left behind, was thought worthless, was abandoned and left to rot, and that praise can be an overstimulating thing when you aren't used to it. He presses a softer kiss to Michael's temple and opens himself up to Michael's eyes, letting Michael see the truth of it before he continues. 

Michael's wings are shaking as Adam finally reaches the tips. Tiny moans spill from behind his clenched teeth; he could hold them back if he wants to, but he feels safe here, his Grace whispers to Adam. He knows Adam would never hurt him.

Adam spreads oil through the final feathers and moves back, so Michael's wings don't hit him in the face. Michael makes a curiously avian chirp and turns fully, only to see Adam grin at him and stick his oil-covered fingers in his mouth. He can't really swallow, but it's worth it for the way Michael's eyes widen, his pupils blown and black so there's barely a ring of his eerie starlit blue. 

"Well?" Adam prompts. 

Michael's eyes narrow, his mouth turning up into a mischievous smirk that frightens and arouses Adam in equal measure, before the world twists. It folds, inside-out like a Moebius strip, before Adam is falling onto the bed, Michael having switched their places and pulled his consciousness back into his body. 

Before he can fall on his face, strong hands (stronger than any mortal) catch Adam and twist him around, so he's lying on his back. Michael is over him, grinning wickedly, his eyes dark with hunger as he swings his apparition's leg over Adam's waist so Adam is lying underneath him, caged in by his thighs. Adam moans and arches up against him; outside of his body things like arousal have a more abstract, distant quality to them. In his body, his senses are double the strength, his blood rushing and his cock hard against his belly, his pleasure intoxicating in its intensity. It's nearly as intoxicating as Michael; his apparition is strange to touch, too light, buzzing with Michael's power. It feels like no living man alive, like what it is, a doll meant so that someone as large as a mountain and beautiful as a star can interact with him. Overwhelmed, Michael's fire licking at the inside of his skin, Adam reaches up to kiss him.

Michael returns the favor eagerly; he was a little bit dubious about kissing at first until, he says, Adam explained what a good kiss is like for him. Apparently he'd spent the next two weeks wondering what and how he would kiss Adam until he finally caved in and asked. He learns quickly, far quicker than he'd ever been given credit for, and he had Adam's pleasure feedback loop to reference - now it takes him scarce a minute to have Adam whining into his mouth and making little abortive thrusts of his hips until Grace flexes around him and suddenly he can't move. 

Michael pulls back. His eyes are strange - technically Adam can see his own eye color, but overlaid on them are Michael's eyes, that brilliant, galactic blue like nothing of earth. He smiles, soft and possessive and dark with a wild wanting all at once, and leans down to nip at Adam's jaw. It's a little like holding an ice cube and a little like passing your hand through a candle flame and a lot nothing like any human at all, but it's his Michael - it's even better. "My pace now, pretty one," he murmurs. "Mine."

"Yours," Adam agrees desperately, straining against the Grace bonds. "Come on, Michael," he says, tilting his head back, offering himself. "Come get your prize."

And Michael does. 

When they're done, a few hours later - they could go for longer but it gets dull - Michael leans against the headboard and pulls a sweaty, exhausted Adam to lay on top of him. Adam moans softly, shifting around so he can hide his face in Michael's neck. Michael doesn't miracle him back to normal - Adam likes the ache - but he does wish away some of the residue of their fun, come and wing oil alike, and inside his Grace curls around Adam's soul in a gentle embrace, soothing, like being wrapped in a blanket of flame.

"Sorry for waking you up," Michael says eventually. 

Tired as he is, that startles a laugh out of Adam. "Do I fucking look like I mind, halo?" 

Michael smiles. His hand strokes down Adam's back. "Not particularly." Still, there's an odd timbre to his voice, a strange tremor in his Grace.

"Hey - hey." Adam leans back so he can look Michael in the eyes, reaching out to touch the side of Michael's face. Michael leans his head into Adam's hand, eyes soft and searching. 

"It's okay," Adam says firmly. "I want you to feel better, I want to help you. I love you. You got that?" 

"As if I could forget," Michael says weakly - he was trying for a casual tone, but the way his Grace sings at the reminder betrays him. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to Adam's. "I love you too."

"Whether it is forever or not, I'll always help," Adam promises. "We have time now."

Michael smiles. The physical pain is still there, reaching in from the corners, but in his self, it seems to Adam like something has smoothed out, like a broken bone's been set, like a wound's been slowly stitched together. "All the time in the world."

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Michael's pain is probably mostly a psychological/residual Hell trauma thing. It's probably going to diminish with time but will likely never fully go away. he has Adam tho and he's, you know, Michael, so it could be worse
> 
> how was this one? i love giving the Midam crew just the most self-indulgent nonsense i can make


End file.
